


Spit and Polish

by Toft



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, M/M, Nail Polish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 21:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7548391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Think of it as a form of restraint,” Harold says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spit and Polish

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Spit and Polish 伪装(Translation/翻译)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10530741) by [sandunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandunder/pseuds/sandunder)



“Think of it as a form of restraint,” Harold says. The chemical smell permeates the room. For a moment, John can feel his mind trying to jump towards memories of cleaning up blood, prepping holding cells, field surgery. But what Harold is doing to him is too weird for him to get distracted. He’s holding John’s hands in his, dabbing color onto his nails with a small, soft brush. He tuts when John tilts his thumb slightly trying to give him better access, and the brush slips some polish onto the skin beside his thumbnail. 

“Don’t move, let me do it.”

He swipes the overrun color from John’s skin with the wadded up point of a kleenex. Firm, sure movements. He’s good at this. John would say he’s had a lot of practice, except Harold seems to be good at everything he tries. It’s easy to imagine Harold doing this for Grace Hendricks, bending over her hands or feet with that little frown of concentration, but it’s equally easy to imagine that this is the first time Harold has ever done this for someone else - that he stayed up and watched Youtube tutorials and practiced on his own hands until he had it perfect, just like he did with the rope tie he did on John last week. For John. For - whatever this is.

He stares at his fingers. The polish is a plain, glossy black. He’d said “Sure, Harold, whatever you want,” because he’s found Harold has a knack for getting John off with sex things that he's never even thought about, but he’d been secretly convinced it would look stupid. Nail polish is pretty, and pretty isn’t a word that John can fit into his ideas about himself. But it doesn’t look stupid. It looks - he doesn’t know. It’s weirdly disembodying, like his hands suddenly belong to somebody else.

“Seems like kind of a goth thing,” he says, clearing his throat, just to break the silence.

Harold hums, and starts back on John’s right hand to put on a second coat. One finger at a time, sweeping black on black. It looks already finished to John, but he can see that on the second run the color is richer, less patchy. 

“Would you believe me if I said I used to wear this as a teenager?”

“No,” John smiles, and Harold meets his eyes for a second, his mouth quirking up at the corner in a moment of shared understanding. He goes back to the polish. It’s kind of mesmerizing, like a magic trick. Harold sits back after finishing his left hand, and turns John’s fingers from side to side, checking there are no more smears.

“This will take a little while to dry. You mustn’t touch anything at all. I don’t want you to smear the polish. Keep your hands flat on the couch, or in the air, ideally.”

“So I just sit here?”

“I’ll keep you entertained,” Harold says, with a little smile. He comes round to John’s other side and nudges John down until he’s lying on his back with his head in Harold’s lap, his hands resting flat on his stomach. Harold opens his book, clears his throat, and starts to read. John doesn’t really listen, just lets his voice drift over him. It’s nice. He’s hyper conscious of his hands, the ends of his fingernails sensitized by the minute change in the weight of his nails. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to feel that, but he can. He supposes people get used to it. He thinks vaguely that he could go and get the Glock and clean it while Harold talks. Then he thinks - no, he’ll chip the polish. 

The muscles in his neck and shoulders loosen slowly, and he sinks more into the couch. Then he catches himself thinking that in a moment he’ll get up, probably, make Harold a coffee - but no, he can’t do that either. He has to hand it to Harold; it’s clever, tying John down with nothing but a desire not to screw up Harold’s work. Subtle. Harold likes messing with his head - he’s a little like Kara, in that way - but unlike Kara, he isn’t vicious about it, just… curious. John doesn’t mind. Part of him is still surprised Harold finds him interesting enough to bother.

Harold breaks off. “You’re smiling.”

“You could have just cuffed me,” John says, looking up at him upside down. 

“I could,” Harold agrees. He runs his fingers through John’s hair, gently scratching his scalp, and John’s eyes close of their own accord. He feels good. Cared for. He could just float up into the air.

“I have to admit, I thought you’d have more trouble with this,” Harold says above him. “It’s a slightly different… _register_ to handcuffs, you must admit. It should be fairly dry now - take a look.”

John lets Harold tug him towards the mirror in the bedroom - full-length, of course. John’s wearing sweat pants and a t-shirt, and his nails are painted, and in the dim light, he looks like someone totally different. Like - an artist, or something, or someone who’s just been at a rock concert. He doesn’t know whether he wants to blow the guy in the mirror or beat the shit out of him. It makes him feel unsettled in his skin, and all of a sudden his mouth is dry.

“I think you really need some eyeliner to complete the effect,” Harold says behind him. His tone is light, but there’s something in his voice that matches what John is feeling - a storm front on the horizon, ready to crash down on them. “Maybe some lipstick.”

For just a second, John lets himself think about it. Then he shudders, and turns away from the mirror. It’s too much - John wants to look away from it, from this new version of himself, but he keeps catching flashes of his nails in the corner of his eye. Harold kisses him holding John’s hands down at his sides, with his fingers circling his wrists. When John tries to start on his waistcoat buttons, Harold tuts, and bats him away; instead, he makes John hold up his hands in the air as Harold pulls off his t-shirt, strips him naked and lays him down on the bed like John is something breakable. John feels breakable.

Harold’s eyes are dark as he undresses. “You look…” he swallows. “Very good.”

John wraps his hand - carefully - around his cock and strokes himself for Harold, caught between the way his painted fingernails look against his skin and the expression on Harold’s face.

“You’re extremely lovely,” Harold says, and for a heartbreaking second, John almost believes him. He reaches out for his hand and pulls him down on top of him so he can close his eyes, so he doesn’t have to look.

*

“I don’t suppose you’d consider leaving it on tomorrow?” Harold murmurs, later, when he’s stroking patterns into John’s chest and John is catching his breath and still chasing aftershocks. “The color does match the suit.”

He’s only teasing, but there’s a note of wistfulness in his voice that tugs at John, and he strays into imagining it. Wearing the suit, he blends into the background, but walking around with his nails painted, maybe people would see what he is: wrong, a bad fit. The idea gives him a dangerous feeling that he clamps down on immediately. It’s too much like relief.

“I thought not,” Harold sighs. “I suppose it would make you a little conspicuous.”

“If Marilyn Manson’s number comes up, I’ll consider it.” 

“Who’s she?” Harold says, with a little frown, and John has to roll over to kiss him for a little while, until Harold half-laughs into his mouth and pushes him back so he can breathe.

Harold still has that little frown on his face. “You can buy your own clothes, you know,” he says, apropos of nothing. “You don’t have to wear what I give you.”

John shrugs. He’s never had a job without a uniform. He’s not sure what he would do if he had to choose his own clothes. He’s always appreciated that Harold just goes ahead and tells him what to wear and who to be, even though he knows, objectively, that Harold’s a little weird about it, and that maybe John shouldn’t like it as much as he does. It’s a secret, like his name, like where he grew up, like the number of people he’s killed. Only Harold knows those things, now. John’s okay with that.

“I like wearing what you give me,” he says at last, but it isn’t quite what he means. Harold is looking hard at him, like he does at a security system he can’t quite figure out yet.

“Maybe you’d like something a little different? Something to go with the nails?”

“I don’t want -” John says, his throat suddenly tight - “I don’t want to wear a dress.”

Harold touches his cheek. “All right, John. It’s all right. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

John swallows. His face feels hot. “I’d… try things. Like this. If you want.”

“Do you want me to decide?”

John nods, relieved. Harold kisses his forehead, a benediction.

“That’s perfectly all right. Do you want me to take off the polish now?”

John nods again. He doesn't quite trust his voice.

Harold goes to get the nail polish removal and cotton pads, and removes the black polish, one fingernail at a time. It feels less like taking off a disguise than putting one on. But it's still a relief to get back to what he's used to.

"We can do this again," Harold says, still so gently. "Any time you like."

Later, in the dark, before Harold's breathing eases out into sleep, John says, "Thanks for finding me, Harold."

"I'm glad I did," Harold says, and his hand finds John's under the covers.


End file.
